


The Cooler King

by hafital



Category: Great Escape (1963), The Great Escape - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd never get so much as a twitch from him, they could stare all they wanted, night and day. Didn't matter. He was The Cooler King; that meant something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cooler King

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lakester for Yuletide 2006. Many thanks to Kaneko, for betaing. Other upload of this story is from from the previous Yuletide archive.

***

 

*thu-thump-thump-smack*

The ball bounced neatly into Virgil Hilts' gloved hand. He threw it back against the wall. Again. And again. There was a trick to being in the cooler. Hilts had learned to live in his head. Just enough to go someplace else, make it real, but not too real. The trick was to stay sane, not go crazy. Crazy was just around the corner anyway when you were in the bag, no need to invite it in.

_Where did you grow up? Do you have a girlfriend, back home? How many fairies dance on the head of a pin?_

Hilts did push-ups. Twenty two-handed, ten one-handed. He did them in the morning and at night. Then he did pull-ups, using the bars in the window, counting out twenty at a time. He could see the forest from that window, smell the pine, feel the breeze.

He thought of the Fifty. It gave him a cold kind of anger, almost unreal, detached. Bartlett had succeeded, in a way, had got what he wanted, at least. They all had. It made it easier. He could feel his captain's insignia pinned to the inside of his shirt, the metal made warm by his skin.

At night, he remembered riding the motorcycle, how it dug into the dirt, back tire skidding, spraying grass, riding so close to the Swiss border he could smell the chocolate. He picked at the scabs on his arms left from the barbed wire, flicking them across, seeing how far they flew.

Sometimes, he thought of Ives, asking his questions.

_Do you have haggis, in America? Ever play real football, not that pigskin crap? Do you have a family? Do you think of them?_

Eventually, he'd get out, try another blitz. He always did.

 

***

 

The sun made him blink, walking between the goons lining the path outside the cooler, Strachwitz standing at the end with his cement-colored eyes. Hilts walked cool as day, right past, with not even a flicker on his face. They'd never get so much as a twitch from him, they could stare all they wanted, night and day. Didn't matter. He was The Cooler King; that meant something.

It only took a few steps to shake it off -- the gray walls, the damp, cold floor. He ignored the looks he got from his fellow POWs. He spotted Hendley, leaning against hut one-oh-four, cigarette in his mouth. Hilts returned Hendley's slow nod.

Goff came skidding down between barracks, right on time, sliding into step with him. "Virgil, thought they'd let you rot in there. You must be near cracking. Glad you're out, I bet. Hey! Guess who wants to see you. The SBO. Go fig. Said he wanted to see you right when you got out."

Hilts stopped and turned to Goff. "He what?"

"Said he wanted to see you. Don't ask me why. Are you gonna go?"

Hilts didn't answer, leaving Goff standing between huts, making his way to the group captain's hut.

"Okay, well, see you later. Good to have you back, Virgil." Goff called after him, good old Goff, he'd never change, and that was fine. Hilts let him be, glad to have another American around, anyway. But he sure wished Goff would stop calling him Virgil.

He stepped into the group captain's hut, past the men posted there, and not for the first time did Hilts wonder a little bit about how they all needed order, someone to follow, a job to make the days go by, even if it was just standing outside and nodding each time someone entered or exited.

"Come in, Captain." Ramsey stood by the window, facing east, barely giving a nod when Hilts entered. He had his cane with him, leaning on it heavily. Hilts had heard that Ramsey had got his leg pinned by the fuselage of his bomber when he'd crashed. Crushed the bone down to dust. It was a miracle he'd kept the leg, although Hilts didn't think it was that much of a miracle. Ramsey seemed the type for quiet perseverance: where most would crack up and go loopy, Group Captain Ramsey just brushed the dust off and sat back behind his desk, only slightly battered.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

Ramsey turned around, looking Hilts up and down. "Sit down, Hilts."

"I'd rather stand, if you don't mind." Hilts could sense he was about to be hit with something and he wasn't gonna like it, not one bit.

With an almost weary nod, Ramsey placed himself behind the table that served as his desk. Hilts thought Ramsey had aged ten years in the days since they'd all scooted out of Harry. He wondered if he looked as tired.

"They captured you by the Swiss border?"

Hilts nodded. "Yes, sir." He could hear the men working outside, the sounds of gravel crunching and some singing drifting in, everything continuing almost as it was.

"Good." Ramsey fell silent, again, eyes falling to the surface of his desk. "I suppose you've heard?"

Hilts knew he referred to the fifty men executed by the gestapo - almost all of the X Organization, the ones that had really run it, anyway. "Yeah."

Ramsey looked at him then, raising his pale face. "I suppose the American attitude would be to look at the whole thing as a defeat, that the goons won."

Hilts smiled and shook his head. "I know you don't think that. It's true, American's don't like to lose -- it gives us indigestion -- but if you're trying to say I think that's what happened, you're wrong. I have too much respect for Bartlett and what he did to think that. It was a crazy idea from the beginning, he knew that. Everybody did." Hilts put his hands on his hips.

"I'm glad to hear it. It is a criticism I often hear from Americans, that we British take too much pride in a noble defeat. But, it is not the defeat we honor, but the spirit in which it is met that must be looked at. I hope I'm making myself clear. I want to make sure you understand this. It is very important." Ramsey sat up straighter in his chair. "I have a favor to ask you."

He nodded. "Well, I knew it had to be something. What is it?"

"Always straight to the point."

Hilts stopped himself from grinning. "If at all possible. Look, sir, just say what you're going to say."

"All right. I want you to be the new Big X."

It was the last thing he expected. He stared at Ramsey, mouth falling open. Outside, a car drove by and backfired, someone yelled in German. "You're kidding me. You want me to be X. You're outta your mind."

Ramsey looked at him levelly. "Perhaps."

Hilts couldn't believe his ears. It was crazy, totally wacko. He wasn't a leader and certainly never wanted to be one. He worked alone, maybe with one other person, but better alone. Ramsey had gone totally around the bend.

"Nuh-uh. No way." Hilts shook his head, waved his arms, laughed it off. "You're funny, you know that."

"Captain--"

"I work alone." He pointed to his chest.

"Except when you don't--"

"You know what, that's my business. That's none of yours. So, I came. I heard what you had to say. I'm gonna go now. No disrespect, sir, and thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I'll be seeing you around." He turned to leave, blocked at the door by one of the other prisoners. He narrowed his eyes and said, calmly, "Out of my way."

"Captain. Wait." Hilts glanced behind him. Ramsey had stood up, leaning on his cane. Hilts sighed and turned around, folding his arms against his chest.

"It is the sworn duty of every officer to try and escape, to not sit still, not give up, no matter the odds." Hilts opened his mouth to say he had no intention of giving up, but Ramsey waved his hand, stopping him from saying anything. "You're the best example of that I've ever seen, Captain. That's what these men need now. Think about it. Please."

Ramsey looked at the man blocking the doorway who stepped back. "Thank you, for listening. Enjoy your first evening out."

Hilts took a long moment, watching Ramsey turn back to the window, before high-tailing it out of there.

 

***

 

He walked into the mess and all conversation immediately quieted, all eyes following him when he got his tray and loaded it with food. He let them stare, the hum of voices eventually returning. Goff showed up and sat next to him, talking and talking. Hilts didn't say anything back, but Goff didn't mind. He never minded, good old Goff, happy just to have someone listen.

Hilts finished eating. He spotted Hendley standing at the back of the mess, watching, and Hilts made his way over to him, away from the crowd of stares and unspoken questions. Sometimes it took a while, after a long stretch in the cooler, for it not to be weird being around people again.

Hilts noticed that the Forger wasn't around -- what was his name, Blythe? He remembered Blythe had started going blind, Hendley taking him under his wing. He caught Hendley's eye and asked a question with just a look. Hendley shook his head, making room next to him against the wall. "Nah, he didn't make it."

Hilts didn't say anything. Hendley gave him a cigarette, and that was good. That was real good. Hilts took a long drag, looking at the orange tip, leaning his head back. The men had a card game going with lots of yelling and wild gestures. Some of the edge he felt wore off with each inhale of smoke. Eventually, Hendley spoke. "What did the SBO want?"

Hilts looked at him briefly, shrugging. He didn't know why he answered. "He asked me to be the new Big X."

Both of Hendley's eyebrows went up, but he didn't say anything, not right away, a distant look crossing his eyes. "I think I can guess your answer."

Hilts smiled, shaking his head. He kicked the wall with the back of his heel.

Hendley moved away from the wall. "Yeah," he said, and there was nothing in his voice that said he agreed or that he understood, or anything. Just a simple word, spoken quietly. Hilts looked at Hendley, seeing a man with a ghost walking by his side, one with a round face and small eyes -- he saw ghosts all over the place, walking in and around all the men. He had one of his own that asked him questions all day long.

_Do you like to go swimming? Ever been to New York? Do you remember what it feels like to fly?_

Hendley nodded, taking out a fresh pack of cigarettes, tucking it into Hilts' pocket. He patted it once with his hand. "See you, Hilts," he said, and turned to leave.

 

***

 

He had to get out of the barracks, away from the many faces that still wore the shock of hearing that fifty of their fellow officers had been summarily executed. Hilts slipped outside, into the cool night air, dark with only the searchlights moving in and out. No time like the present to scope out the goon towers and the camp surveillance, see if they'd changed anything: the timing of the guards, the patrols. That was the excuse he told himself and it was as good as any.

Outside, he could breathe, take in big lungfuls of air. He crouched down along the huts and moved between beams of light to a place he knew at the back of the camp. Not quite a blind spot, but the searchlights never reached it, and the guards only look along the fence. A person could lean up against a small railing there, could look up at the stars and hear the wind in the trees, could maybe forget for a little while, although never for very long.

There was a kid already there, startled by Hilts coming up on him suddenly, scrambling to rise. Hilts swore and yanked the kid back down again.

"Sorry, sir. I was only getting a bit of fresh air. I didn't realize--"

"S'all right, s'all right. Just shut up. Sit back down." Hilts got a good look at the kid. He thought he knew his name, one of Blythe's forgers. "Sam, is it?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir."

Hilts settled himself next to Sam, one leg out, the other leg bent with his arm resting on it. "Call me Hilts." They shook hands, and Hilts noticed the dried tears on the kid's face, the slight shaking of his hands. He opened the pack of cigarettes Hendley had given him, offering one to Sam. Long, thin fingers -- forger's hands -- took one, and they both leaned back, smoking in silence.

It took a moment for the kid to start talking, a quiet whisper. "What was it like?"

A question, and Hilts almost heard a different voice asking it. He looked at the kid, choosing to answer with facts, saying nothing about the little bit of sweetness that came with not being in a cage, even for only a day. "'Bout what you'd expect. Roads, houses, that sort of thing. Over that rise over there, there's an old mill. That way," he pointed behind them, "is the way to the town, the church, and the railroad. The roads are patrolled, especially near the camp."

Sam had wet eyes, brown hair curling around his head. He stared out to the dark line of trees that bordered the camp on all sides. "I was number one hundred and twenty-five. Way back in the line. I never had chance."

"Probably a good thing."

He turned to Hilts, his face looking incredibly young, couldn't be more than nineteen, maybe twenty. "How can you say that? I know I wasn't one of the fifty, or even one of the eleven that were returned. I'm nobody. I have to sit here, and crouch in the darkness, hiding, staring at that line of trees, trying to remember what it felt like to sit at my mother's table, have some fresh butter with my toast in the morning. Sometimes I've forgotten what she looks like, what she sounds like. I don't remember what it was like to walk down a street, or drive a car, have my own stupid patch of dirt that belongs to me and not to the bloody goons. For a little while, helping the Big X, I almost remembered, but now, now--"

The kid choked on his words, started grasping for air. Hilts grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. "Okay, hey, look at me." He slapped Sam's face, lightly, taking hold of his head with both of his hands. Hilts looked into Sam's wide eyes, the whites showing, and knew the kid was close to cracking, close to going wire-happy. "I want you to breathe. That's it. No, no, don't look anywhere else, just at me, breathe in, breathe out. Come on."

Slowly, Sam's shaking stopped. He dropped his head against Hilts' shoulder. Hilts closed his eyes, remembering for just a moment what it was like to be something other than The Cooler King. To be a man, to touch and feel, hold someone warm in his arms. Anyone, he didn't care anymore, just someone to remind him what it felt like. He could see Ives' body hanging on the barbed wire, jerking with each rapport of gunfire. "You're okay," he said, finally.

Sam pulled away, wiping at his eyes. "Sorr-"

Hilts waved the apology away. "Go on, you're all right. Go on back inside, get some sleep. Be careful."

Sam started to move away, counting between search beam lights to time when to cross to the other row of huts.

_Do you dream, Hilts? Did you ever run away as a child? Have you ever been in love?_

"Sam," said Hilts, making Sam turn around.

"Yes, sir."

Hilts smiled. "Do me a favor. Before you go back to your bunk, find Hendley. Tell him I need to see him. Tell him we need to plan a meeting."

Sam's face widened into a big smile. "Yes, sir."

 

***

 

the end.


End file.
